Aemon raised his practice sword in response to Ser Corbin's salute, feeling the weight of dozens of eyes upon him. The enhanced cognition was running at full capacity now, processing every detail of the scene with crystalline clarity. The way morning shadows fell across the practice yard, the slight favor Corbin showed his right leg, and the nervous energy of the younger soldiers who had gathered to watch the newcomer's first test.
Reputation is everything in a feudal society, he reminded himself, drawing on both Marcus's modern understanding of social dynamics and Aemon's hard-earned knowledge of medieval politics. Too weak and they'll dismiss me as useless. Too strong and they'll grow suspicious. Find the perfect middle ground, competent enough to earn respect, human enough to avoid uncomfortable questions.
"Begin!" Ser Duncan called out.
Ser Corbin moved with the confident aggression of a man who had survived four decades of warfare. His opening attack was a classic high-line thrust designed to test Aemon's reflexes and defensive capabilities. Fast, economical, with just enough power behind it to cause real damage if it connected.
The enhanced perception made Corbin's movement seem almost sluggish. Aemon could see the attack developing before the older knight had even committed to it, the slight weight shift, the minute adjustment of grip, the telegraphing tension in shoulder muscles.
Easy counter: beat-parry into riposte, target the exposed shoulder. But that would end it too quickly.
Instead, Aemon executed a simple backward step and circular parry, deflecting the thrust with minimal effort while maintaining perfect form. The crowd murmured approvingly, good footwork, clean defense, no wasted motion.
"Not bad," Corbin grunted, immediately following up with a diagonal cut toward Aemon's left flank. "Let's see how you handle pressure."
The next exchange was more complex. Corbin pressed forward with a series of linked attacks, cut, thrust, cut again—each flowing seamlessly into the next with the kind of practiced fluidity that spoke of countless hours of training. He was testing Aemon's stamina, his ability to maintain form under sustained pressure, and his tactical awareness when forced onto the defensive.
Aemon gave ground steadily, his enhanced reflexes allowing him to read each attack and respond with perfect timing. Block, parry, deflect, always moving just enough to avoid serious contact while showcasing solid defensive technique. The ancient Númenórean blood sang in his veins, whispering of battles fought on distant shores and enemies who had fallen before superior skill, but he kept that power carefully leashed.
Let him think he's winning. Pride comes before the fall, and I need him to be overconfident for what comes next.
"Stand and fight, Rivers!" someone called from the crowd. "You're not running a bloody marathon!"
The taunt brought scattered laughter, but Aemon noticed that Ser Duncan remained silent, his experienced eyes tracking every movement with calculating intensity. The master-at-arms had seen enough fights to recognize the difference between retreat and tactical positioning.
Corbin, encouraged by the crowd's reaction and Aemon's apparent defensive mindset, pressed his advantage. His attacks became more aggressive, less controlled, and burned energy in pursuit of a quick victory. The older knight's breathing grew slightly labored, and Aemon's enhanced awareness noted the imperceptible slowing of his reactions.
Now.
The transition from defense to offense happened in the space between heartbeats. As Corbin committed to a heavy overhead strike, Aemon stepped inside the arc of the blade instead of retreating. His practice sword came up in a rising block that caught Corbin's weapon near the crossguard, using the knight's momentum against him.
The crowd fell silent as Aemon flowed seamlessly into a pommel strike aimed at Corbin's exposed ribs. At the last instant, he pulled the blow, allowing it to connect with just enough force to demonstrate the technique without causing injury.
"I yield," Ser Corbin said immediately, stepping back with a rueful grin. "Well struck, lad. That was prettier than a maiden's kiss."
The watching soldiers erupted in cheers and good-natured ribbing directed at their older comrade. Aemon lowered his sword and offered a respectful bow, his expression properly modest despite the surge of satisfaction he felt.
Perfect. Showed competence without overwhelming skill, ended with honor intact on both sides, and demonstrated tactical thinking. Reputation established without raising suspicions.
"Where'd you learn that move?" Corbin asked as they walked toward the weapon racks. "That inside step and pommel strike, that's not common knowledge among hedge knights."
Aemon's mind raced through possible explanations. The technique was something he remembered from historical European martial arts videos Marcus had watched obsessively during college, but that knowledge obviously couldn't exist in this world.
"Picked it up from a Braavosi water dancer who was traveling through the Riverlands," he said smoothly. "Traded him meals for lessons during a particularly harsh winter. He said it was how you deal with opponents who fight with more strength than sense."
The lie came easily, supported by Aemon's memories of the various sellswords and traveling fighters he'd encountered during his wandering years. In a world where knowledge was often passed from master to student through word of mouth, unusual techniques could always be attributed to foreign teachers or exotic martial traditions.
"Braavosi, eh?" Corbin looked intrigued. "That would explain it. Those water dancers fight like nothing else I've ever seen. All speed and precision, no wasted motion." He clapped Aemon on the shoulder with genuine warmth. "You'll do fine here, Rivers. Robert's got use for lads who can think as well as fight."
Ser Duncan approached with an expression of professional satisfaction. "Clean work," he said, "simple and efficient". "You fight like you've been properly trained, not just someone who learned by getting hit with sticks. How long have you been working with a sword?"
"Ten years, give or take," Aemon replied, which was roughly accurate for the memories he'd inherited. "Started when my father died and I had to fend for myself. Learned quickly that being good with a blade opens doors that stay closed to empty hands."
"Wise words. Come with me, time you met some of the lads you'll be serving alongside."
The next hour was a blur of introductions and evaluations. The men-at-arms of Storm's End were a mixed group, some local boys who'd grown up in service to House Baratheon, others experienced soldiers drawn by Robert's growing reputation, a few grizzled veterans who'd served the previous Lord Steffon before he died in a storm at sea.
Each conversation was an opportunity to gather intelligence while building relationships. Aemon learned that Robert was expected to return within the week with additional forces from the Stormlands, that ravens had been flying constantly between Storm's End and other major houses, and that there was a general sense of anticipation mixed with nervousness about the coming conflict.
Information is power, he reminded himself as he carefully catalogued names, relationships, and useful details. And in a world without modern communication, the man who knows what's happening has an enormous advantage.
During the midday meal, he found himself seated between two soldiers who couldn't have been more different. On his left was Tomard Snow, a bastard from the North who'd come south seeking his fortune and found service with Robert's forces. He was young, earnest, and possessed of the kind of straightforward honor that would either get him killed quickly or see him rise through the ranks through sheer competence.
On his right sat Bronn, though he went by a different name here, calling himself Bronn of the Blackwater, a sellsword with clever eyes and the sort of casual cynicism that suggested he'd seen enough of the world to know exactly how much honor was worth when the steel started flying.
"So, Rivers," Bronn said around a mouthful of bread and cheese, "what's your story? Don't tell me you came all this way just for the honor of serving the great Robert Baratheon."
Dangerous question from a dangerous man. Aemon recognized the type, the kind of person who survived through careful observation and ruthless pragmatism. Someone who would be useful as an ally or devastating as an enemy.
"Every bastard needs to make his own way," Aemon replied carefully. "Robert's got a reputation for rewarding good service, and there's word of war coming. Wars create opportunities for men willing to seize them."
Bronn's grin was sharp as a blade. "Now that's an honest answer. I can work with honest ambition." He raised his cup of ale in a mock toast. "To opportunity, then. May we all live long enough to enjoy what we earn."
Tomard looked uncomfortable with the mercenary attitude, but raised his cup nonetheless. "To service and honor," he added, his northern accent thick with earnestness.
"To survival," Aemon said, drinking deeply. Because without that, nothing else matters.
The afternoon brought additional training and evaluation. Aemon was tested with various weapons, swords and shields, polearms, bows and arrows, and found himself performing consistently well without excelling dramatically in any particular area. The Númenórean blood provided enhanced coordination and strength, but not much to appear superhuman. The NZT-like mental enhancement helped him analyze and adapt to each weapon's requirements with unnatural speed, but he was careful to make his improvement appear gradual and earned.
Competent in all areas, exceptional in none. The perfect profile for someone destined to fade into the background of history.
As the sun began to set, Ser Duncan found him practicing sword forms against a wooden pell, working through the basic sequences with mechanical precision.
"You've done well today," the master-at-arms said, settling onto a bench to watch. "The lads like you, which is more important than you might think. A man can be the finest fighter in the Seven Kingdoms, but if his brothers-in-arms don't trust him, he won't live long enough to prove it."
Aemon lowered his sword and turned to face Duncan fully. "I appreciate the opportunity, ser. When can I expect to be formally sworn into Lord Robert's service?"
"As soon as he returns. Should be within the week, assuming the weather holds." Duncan's expression grew serious. "But I'll warn you now, lad, this isn't going to be a short campaign. Wars have a way of dragging on longer than anyone expects, and this one's got the feel of something that'll reshape the realm before it's done."
If only you knew, Aemon thought grimly. This rebellion is just the opening act. What comes after will make this war look like a children's game.
"I'm prepared for that, ser," he said aloud. "I didn't come here looking for easy service."
Duncan nodded approvingly. "Good. Now get yourself some supper and rest. Tomorrow we'll start working on unit tactics. Individual skills all well and good, but battles are won by men who know how to fight together."
As the master-at-arms walked away, Aemon allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The first day had gone better than he'd dared hope. He'd established himself as a competent but unremarkable soldier, begun building relationships with key personnel, and started gathering the intelligence he would need to navigate the coming chaos.
But it was only the beginning. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new opportunities to advance his position without revealing his true capabilities. And somewhere to the north, events were already in motion that would soon sweep the entire continent into war.
One step at a time, he reminded himself as he made his way toward the great hall for the evening meal. Build the foundation carefully, and the tower can reach the sky.
That night, as he lay on his narrow cot in the soldiers' quarters, listening to the snores and quiet conversations of his new brothers-in-arms, Aemon's enhanced mind continued to work. Plans within plans, contingencies within contingencies, all leading toward a future where a bastard with no name would rise to stand among kings.
The ancient blood of Númenor whispered of destiny and greatness, while the cold clarity of enhanced cognition calculated probabilities and optimal paths forward. Both agreed on one fundamental truth: the game of thrones was about to begin, and Aemon Rivers intended to win it.
Outside, storm winds began to gather once more, but this time they carried the promise of opportunity rather than destruction. The Númenórean had awakened, and the world would never be the same.